A Case of Dimension
by theskylarksings
Summary: University student Lucy Daniels is a homebody, a perfectionist, a nerd, and no fun, at least according to her roommate. And she's fine with that. But when she ends up in the world of BBC Sherlock, she's going to have to do more than term papers to get through this mess alive. And what's with these words floating around everywhere? [Sherlock x OC. Full summary inside.]
1. Prologue

University student Lucy Daniels is a homebody, a perfectionist, a nerd, and no fun, at least according to her roommate. And she's fine with that. But when she ends up in the world of BBC Sherlock, she's going to have to do more than term papers to get through this mess alive.

And what's with these words floating around everywhere?

•••

An adventure in Sherlockian London, filled with deductions, experiments, high stakes, Chinese food, way too much sass, a very slippery consulting criminal, and perhaps even a touch of romance.

[Sherlock x OC]

Very loosely follows 'The Great Game' (01x03).

•••

PROLOGUE: IN WHICH I AM NOT UNDER TERRORIST ATTACK

•••

"C'mon, Lucy, it'll be fun!" Annabel pleads.

"You're going to smear your eyeliner if you don't pay attention," I point out.

She huffs, checking herself in the mirror. "You never go out and do anything. You need some fun in your life."

Having your best friend for a roommate has its pros and cons. Pro: Knowing me on two fronts, she understands me better than anyone else. Con: That means she feels it's her job to help socialize me.

"Even if I wanted to, now isn't exactly the best time," I reply. I had just finished closing up at the cafe before settling in for a frantic paper writing session.

"My point exactly!" she protests. "You're too busy. You need to lay off the class work and let yourself be happy."

"An, what I need is to focus."

She leaves off, and I continue typing. Without warning her hand slams the laptop closed.

"Hey!"

"Aw, c'mon, you aren't even trying," she protests, pointing at the TV. I had turned on Netflix – BBC Sherlock was playing now – for some background noise to keep me focused. "You're watching your nerd show instead."

"How many times do I have to explain this to you?" I snap. "Ambience helps me think."

"Whatever you say, Lu," Annabel rolls her eyes, grabbing her purse and heading out the door. "Text me when you change your mind." I catch a glimpse of the hallway before the door swings shut again, leaving me with a paper to write.

"Ugh," I moan, scrubbing at my face. Then I sigh, turning up the TV volume, and pull the laptop open again.

She's kind of right, I guess. I don't have to finish editing this paper. I'll pass whether I even turn it in. But the prospect of skipping it to spend my night in a crowded, dim, loud, strange house turns my stomach.

I'm such an introvert. It's probably disgusting, but I'm too busy being glad I'm alone right now to care.

I sigh and get back to my paper.

Suddenly a very real shattering crash sounds through the room. I jerk my head up. There's a bullet hole smashed into the TV glass. Naturally, I duck and cover. After staying curled on the carpet long enough to feel sheepish, I pull my head up.

"A-Annabel?" I call hesitantly. The sound of the air conditioning is my only answer.

Once no more bullets seem forthcoming, I cautiously approach the set. The display doesn't seem to be too damaged, as it's still projecting an image: the pool from The Great Game.

"This isn't funny, An," I say, though I have a suspicion she's not around to hear me.

Frowning, I inspect the cluster of glassy fragments scattered across the carpet. They're awfully far from the set. So did it come through from the back?

I go around the TV to the back, where a bundle of wires are hooked up and plugged in. No bullet holes here. I withdraw, pondering the conundrum from the front again.

This doesn't make sense. Unless the bullet had slammed from inside the screen or something, the glass would have fallen much closer to the set.

Wait.

"Impossible," I murmur, running my fingers across the ragged hole. I can feel air emanating from the other side. Which, I'm actually pretty sure that there is another side at this point, because through the hole I can see the scene in clean, living color. The pool deck is empty, leaving light to dance freely in watery patterns on the walls. Even with the TV muted I hear the echoey dripping noise I usually associate with deserted hotel pools. It's just too real, and too surreal, all at once.

Something starts rattling behind me. I whirl, staring blankly at my mug as it vibrates on the coaster. Everything is shaking, I realize as I glance frantically around the room.

"Okay, yeah, you got me," I say with a tight laugh. "Great prank. You can come out now." The quaking around me only intensifies. "Please?" A note of despair enters my voice.

A sudden, strong gust of wind threatens to push me off my feet. I shield my face as a ream of notes and half-finished sketches spiral past me, followed swiftly by a string of colored pencils. My Captain America bobble head, my debate team trophy, and my hairbrush all smack into the front wall. The desk tips over and falls with a thud before scraping heavily across the floor. My lava lamp hurtles straight through the screen, creating a giant hole.

Suddenly a force like a riptide wrenches me toward the TV, jerking a squeak from my throat. The world seems to change perspective. My peripheral vision warps, elongating like a surrealist painting. A scream rips through my reality as my feet leave the ground, but I can't tell if it comes from me or from somewhere very far away.

I plummet headlong through the glass and into oblivion.


	2. Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE: IN WHICH I HAVE THE STRANGEST CONCUSSION KNOWN TO MAN

•••

My bleary eyes flutter open, then squeeze shut again at the too-bright assault on my aching head. The sun has the linen-crisp feeling of mid-morning. Which is weird, because wasn't it just evening?

Then my memory slams into me and I lurch upward. Immediately I lean back against rough brick and gingerly hold my spinning head.

I'm in a narrow alley, facing a dumpster, surrounded by a bunch of stuff. My stuff. My sketches, damp and stained with fluid from the shattered lava lamp. My bobble head, lying forlorn in a puddle of fragmented glass. Even my debate trophy, though it's broken off at the base.

I wince as my hand comes away from my head sticky and pink. My scalp and forehead sport a long cut. I investigate with gently probing fingers, thankfully finding no glass embedded in my skin. It's a shallow cut, already clotting.

I cautiously raise myself on trembling legs. Then I pick my way around the scattered glass, grateful for protection of my house shoes, until I'm standing at the mouth of the alley, staring into a bustling street.

I gasp, eyes wide. Then I shake my head. "Nope. No way. It's a dream. Or a hallucination. It's not –"

There's a word hovering in the air.

 _There's a_ _word_ _hovering in the_ _air_ _._

"It's not possible," I breathe.

Right next to the door of a little cafe was the word _cheap_. A word. In a white, round font. Just floating there. I reach out my fingers to touch it, only to watch them go right through it. Embarrassed, I pull back and shove my hands in my sweatshirt pocket. "I'm seeing things," I mutter. "I must have a concussion or something."

I salvage some of my colored pencils from the crash site. Then, because I'm not entirely sure what to do, I just start walking down the street.

If I was sucked through the TV, does that mean...?

I cut off the thought before it can take form. This can't be real. I must be dreaming.

Coming at me is a business man with a phone pressed to his ear, his briefcase swinging in time with his brisk stride. I blink. Above his left shoulder hangs a single word: _late_. I stare at him until he passes, turning my head to look over my shoulder as he disappears into the morning.

I face forward again, brow furrowed in puzzlement. A woman in blue scrubs walks toward me from the opposite side. Beside her floats the word _traditional_.

I give her a once-over. Well, actually, I gape at her, my mouth hanging open. She gives me a look before hurrying past.

I shake my head to clear it. It's just a result of my injury. It has to be.

As I turn the corner a gasp escapes my lips. Words are everywhere, covering the entire block.

Next to a tween boy in a maroon beanie are the words _socially inept._ The coffee he holds is _two hours old_. The cab zooming by is closely followed by needs oil. Over the man exiting the cafe hangs the unfortunate phrase _deep in debt._ Dangling beside the little clock tower is _forty-six seconds slow._

I spin in a slow circle as I walk, taking it all in with wide eyes.

The woman crossing the street is surrounded by cloud of them. _Entrepreneur, younger sister, owns a parakeet, affair._ Clinging to the little blond boy trailing his mother into a clothing shop: _imaginative, dislikes noise, thumbsucker._ The bench to the boy's left is wreathed with words. _7+ years old, recently_ _painted, rarely used._

I gawp for a long few minutes, watching the words flit about everywhere. They swirl and change in the constant ebb and flow of London.

Because that's where I am, I realize. In London. _His_ London.

My mind immediately rebels from the idea. This is insane. I should be panicking. Hysterical, even. I should want to cry, laugh, scream, _something!_ Instead I stand numbly in the sidewalk, letting people bustle past me.

You know what? I can cope later. Right now I need –

Suddenly a word appears on me. _Tourist_.

I spin, glancing about everywhere. _Jumpy?_ flickers hesitantly above my head, but then it disappears and is replaced by _gobsmacked_.

I continue to scan the street, unsure of what I'm looking for. Words hover around literally everything – people, objects, vehicles, buildings. My gaze sweeps across the block again.

I stop stock still as my eyes land on a single word: _home_. A familiar dark door stands unassumingly beneath it. The address is bolted on in a bold bronze: 221B.

I break into a fast walk, then a run, until I'm staring up at the door. I lift the knocker. My hand hovers, wavering for a moment before tapping out a simple rhythm.

If this is a dream, I don't think I want to wake up.


	3. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO: IN WHICH I TRY DESPERATELY NOT TO DESTROY THE MULTIVERSE

•••

It only just occurs to me how stupid this might be as the door opens to reveal an older woman: Mrs. Hudson.

"Hello," she greets me warmly. "You're here to see Sherlock, aren't you? Do come in."

She chatters on as I step into the foyer. My fingers tap out an anxious pattern on my leg. I start as _nervous_ sprouts beside me like an accusation.

"Just let me go up and make sure he's seeing clients," Mrs. Hudson says. "He does the get into moods sometimes." She begins climbing the stairs, _sentimental_ and _new haircut_ trailing her like baby ducks.

I take the time to glance around. A homely feeling seeps from every little touch, from the outmoded furnishings to the vase of fresh flowers on the little end table. A silver letter opener lays next to it, engraved with the head of a lion. I pick it up to inspect it closer. On one end his mane curls into a design reminiscent of fleur-de-lis and proceeds along the handle. On the other the blade protrudes dangerously from his mouth.

"Go right on up, love," Mrs. Hudson calls as she descends. I jump, fumbling with the letter opener until it clanks loudly into the table. "Would you like some tea to take up with you?"

"Oh, uh, no thank you, ma'am," I say self-consciously, a bit of a blush staining my cheeks. I'm hyperaware of a curious and a clumsy appearing on either side of me.

"Is there anything I can get for your head?" she questions.

"Um, some antibacterial cream would be nice. And a washcloth," I add as an afterthought, thinking of the possible filth of the alley. I mean, I woke up next to a dumpster, for heaven's sake.

"Alright, dear. I'll be up with it in a minute," she calls absently from the kitchen.

I take a deep breath and began the stairs, my hand sliding along the railing. I find a peculiar comfort in the feeling of the old wood under my fingers.

How am I supposed to explain this utterly surreal situation to a man who all but worships logic? I'm not even sure I believe all this myself.

I pause uncertainly at the top of the stairs, what-ifs buzzing insistently in my ears.

"Yes?" an impatient baritone voice pierces my thoughts.

I hesitantly step forward, surrounded by the almost familiar apartment. The sharp odor of chemicals (I can immediately identfy the tang of formaldehyde) hangs lightly in the air, discouraged from settling by the artificial lemon scent of furniture polish and the warm, herbal aroma of freshly brewed tea. The skull is on the mantle and the violin is leaning against the wall, each labelled with a host of floating deductions. The distinctive wallpaper sports the yellow smiley ringed with bullet holes, and the armchairs are right where they should be.

And there, in his dressing gown and signature thinking pose, surrounded by hundreds of words, was Sherlock Holmes.

"You won't believe me," I blurt, then redden as his kaleidoscope gaze bores into me.

I feel a flutter of fear stir deep in my stomach as he examines me with a detached curiosity. In barely a glance he catalogues me thoroughly, filing away every unconscious flicker of emotion. I watch as each word appears around me. A cluster becomes a cloud becomes a nebula, each observation cuttingly accurate, and all made in seconds.

"And why is that?" he replies, raising a brow. His angular features could have been carved of marble.

I take a deep breath. It's now or never.

"M-My name is Lucy Daniels. Uh, may I sit down?"

He indicates John's armchair with an irritated sweep of his arm. How he manages to put that much arrogance and snark in every move he makes, I have no idea. In that moment I decide wholeheartedly not to even bother with the whole "you're a tv show" whoop-de-doo and skip straight to the more interesting bit — the words. Besides, I'm pretty sure I would end up breaking physics or something weird.

 _Look confident, feel confident, be confident_ , my high school debate coach echoes in my head. As I settle myself in the chair, I straighten my back, lift my chin slightly, and try to make my posture a little wider. But making eye contact with those dissecting, multicolored orbs was impossible. Not that any of it would matter in the face of this man.

"Well?" Sherlock says, a little annoyed quirk dimpling at the corner of his mouth.

"Um..." I begin, then stop. _Well?!_ I prompt myself angrily. The detective simply waits for me to explain, a single finger tapping on the arm of his chair.

"Let me start with this," I say finally. "You deduce things, right?"

He gave me such a look of contempt that I hurried on before he could fit in an insult or send me away.

"Do you see...words? When you deduce?"

Sherlock's scrutiny of me tripled. "What are you getting at?"

I give up any attempt of making myself seem knowledgable. Heck, I have no clue what's going on. "Look, this will sound really crazy, okay? But I want you to hear me out."

"Fine," he says simply.

My gaze flits about before alighting on the laptop. "Recently used, low battery, passcode: Gladstone, four years old." I gesture to the window, rattling off the list surrounding whatever was immediately outside. "Short by a tenner, architect, failing radiator, Crohn's disease, single father." Without waiting for a response I point at myself. "University student, pencil artist, overcompensates for timidity, spring allergies, good grades."

Sherlock goes utterly, dangerously still.

"There's words floating around everywhere, attached to people, or objects, or characteristics, or noises. I can perceive them somehow. And I know they come from you."

He stands, staring at me with a sharp, unreadable expression.

A word appears behind me. _Mrs. Hudson_. In quick succession Sherlock deduces what she's carrying _(reflection on ceiling, the silver tray, not heavy, medical supplies)._ His gaze runs along my cut _(wounded, glass, shallow, airborne impact, fell?)_. Despite myself, I flinch at the intensity of it all. Then, after the long stretch of a few seconds, he turns to face the fireplace.

Mrs. Hudson knocks on the half-open door. "Yoohoo," she calls, setting down a round tray filled with various first aid items. "Sherlock, help the poor girl with her cut," she reproaches.

"Fine." He turns just enough to acknowledge her, continuing to eye me as though he would like to put a scalpel in me to find out what makes me tick.

Once she's out of the room again, he faces me fully. His eyes are bright with excitement, brighter than I've seen since the thrill of the Great Game.

The Great Game. Moriarty. The pool. What day is it? When will the Game start? How long do I have until everything goes downhill?

"You are quite the remarkable puzzle, Miss Daniels," Sherlock says, keeping his voice carefully level. He glances again at my cut with an expression I can't read.

Instead of responding, I reach for the tray. I half-expect him to stop me, but he just continues to watch. As I dab at my cut with the damp rag, the words begin to center on me, deductions swirling in and out of existence. I stiffen.

 _shallow scrape_

 _10.5 cm by .15 cm_

 _angle of impact: 147*_

 _reluctant gaze_

 _holding back_

 _unsure_

 _bad liar_

 _increasingly skittish_

I pull my gaze from the onslaught of information and let him figure out as much as he wanted. It feels too intimate, too vulnerable, too much like being undressed.

The rag comes away pink, but nothing too concerning. I focus on unscrewing the cap to the antibacterial ointment, purposely ignoring his deductions as best I could.

I jump as _art major?_ appears beside my hand. "How'd you figure that one?" I ask, unable to suppress my curiosity.

"Experience with small caps, such as those on paint tubes," he replies easily. He gauges my reaction, which is a slight blush, because it's so obvious, and yet such a strange thing to recognize.

I squeeze some ointment onto my fingers and gingerly spread it on the wound. Noting his continued observance, I frown. "Weren't you supposed to help me with this?"

"You seem to be managing," he responds.

"I guess I am," I mutter, half-ironically, because I'm still waiting on that freak-out. I guess I'm still half in denial about everything. Maybe that's a good thing.

I'm still hoping he'll deduce the whole thing, and I won't have to explain it to him. It sounds way too much like an episode of Doctor Who. He'll never take me seriously. I'm still half-convinced the whole thing is a dream.

The door swings open again, this time without a knock. I turn at the rustle of plastic to find John Watson making his way in with an armful of groceries. He noisily sets them down on the counter, protesting, "Sherlock, I told you three hours ago I was going to run errands today. There's no reason — none at all —" (this bit he punctuates with a wide sweep of his arm) "— for you to blame me for not doing something you asked me about while I was gone. And texting me obsessively while I'm out does not help the situation!"

"Yes, lovely, now please come here and meet our client," Sherlock replies with a wave of disdain.

He issues a sigh, but puts on a smile. "Sorry about that. He can be an absolute git sometimes." He realizes I'm staring at about the same time I realize I'm staring, and I blush at his sudden switch to charm.

Whoops, he thinks I'm into him. Wait, _am_ I into him?

I force a smile. "I understand. I have a roommate myself. We drive each other up the walls sometimes." But we're still best friends, I add silently. Even when An tries to get me drunk and shoots me into a BBC show instead...

Sherlock is staring harder at me. I'm confused for a moment before spotting the words _recognizes John_.

He's about to ask me a question, I can see it in his posture. I stiffen, feeling the butterflies multiply in my stomach. "You read John's blog," he surmises.

Oh. Not trusting myself to speak, I simply nod my head, but Sherlock has already turned back to John. "John, Lucy Daniels. Miss Daniels, Doctor John Watson."

"H-Hi," I say shakily, suddenly feeling a bit wobbly. John seemed so ordinary in comparison to the detective. So...real.

I am _so_ not dreaming.

"Uh..." I didn't get to finish because the world went black again, to the sound of Sherlock's irritated sigh.


	4. Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE: IN WHICH LUNACY AND SMALL-MINDEDNESS ARE DISTINCT CLASSES OF IDIOCY

 **•••**

 **{John's POV}**

"Words," I repeat disbelievingly. "She said she sees words."

Sherlock doesn't answer, leaving his chin perched on his fingers as he stares blankly, either deep in thought or pretending to be.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and stare at my flatmate. "You actually accepted this case?"

He finally looks up. "It's not the words themselves that is the puzzle, John. She saw or experienced something strange and her small mind came up with some explanation that seemed easier to comprehend. No, the interesting part is how it has become connected to me." He pauses, leaning forward as if to communicate his utter seriousness.

We both glance back toward the person in question, her head lolled back against the chair and her blonde curls falling messily over her cheeks. Her freckles stand out like polka dots against her skin, which is still blanched from her sudden collapse. She can't be older than twenty-five, maybe even twenty.

When Lucy had fainted, Sherlock had moved to catch the girl smoothly. I had rushed forward as well, helping him pull her back into her sitting position and checking her vitals, finding her with only an increased heart rate. She doesn't seem the type to be hysterical, and yet my best guess for her collapse is overwhelming emotion.

"So...what?" I break the silence. "She's hallucinating words as a coping mechanism? Maybe she's as smart as you are, and is in denial about it."

"Perhaps," Sherlock said, his face impassive.

Realizing I'm not going to get a straight answer out of him, I shake my head and finish unpacking the groceries. "You know, it wouldn't kill you to get the milk once in a while, instead of texting me until I show up to attend to your every beck and call."

"You asked me to text if I needed anything. I needed something."

"And what was so urgent that it couldn't wait half an hour for me to finish up?"

"Hm? Oh. It's not important," he waves away my question, putting his elbows on his knees and setting his chin on his steepled fingers. Apparently whatever had been so imperative just half an hour ago is devoid of interest in comparison to this new puzzle. His attention is completely fixated on the young woman.

"I hope she doesn't wake up with you staring her down like that," I say dryly. I wad up the grocery bags and put them in the bin on my way back into the sitting room.

He doesn't answer, and I recognize the intense gaze that signifies his mind is far from my words. I exhale heavily through my nose, and settle into the armchair with a cuppa, resolving to wait it out.

It's only a few more minutes until I hear the girl stir. I look up as her eyelids flutter open.

"Wh-Wha-?"

"It's alright, you just passed out," I say, standing to help steady her. To my surprise, Sherlock is already at her other side, a hand on her shoulder.

"I passed out," she murmurs, looking disturbed at the thought. "I never pass out."

I forego the usual _are-you-okay_ s in favor of ascertaining the answer myself. Her face still lacks color, but whether it's from fright or lack of well being, I'm not sure. Her fingers are trembling as well, and her gaze darts all across the room, seeming to settle here and there on invisible subjects. His mind palace, I think, and immediately shy away from the thought. Even Sherlock would acknowledge something like that as impossible. Right?

"So I'm not dreaming," she says, her voice torn between the tone of a matter-of-fact statement, and something much more desperate. And yet, underneath I catch a hint of... Excitement? Wonder?

Sherlock frowns a touch, his observation kicking up a notch, but he doesn't comment.

He may as well have, however, because she looks back at him defiantly. "You try being half-stuck in someone's head and see how you react," she snaps. Suddenly impatient with her recovery, she lurches upwards. As soon as she does, she squeezes her eyes shut with a gasp, half-falling back into the armchair.

"Careful," I caution, wanting her to stay seated.

She pushes Sherlock's hand away, and shoots me a look of determination. "M'fine," she mutters, trying again, this time with more success.

Her gaze roves over the room again, before settling on Sherlock. "Yeah, so this is super weird." I identify her accent as American. Perhaps she's an exchange student? "And cool," she adds, almost as an afterthought. It's strange, how she's caught between fear and awe.

"How did you know to come here?" Sherlock asks, unmoved by her emotional bipolarism.

"I didn't," she replies bluntly. "I passed by your apartment and saw the word home over the door. I took a gamble, and I was right." She looks around at the flat again, staring at Sherlock's spray-painted handiwork on the wall, and at the windows, still boarded up from that gas leak.

When Lucy returns her eyes to the two of us, she seems somehow reassured. "I'm sure you have a zillion questions," she says, and I can see she's fishing for my reaction to all this.

Before I can ask her how she's heard about my blog, Sherlock's phone starts to ring. He nicks it from the table, looking annoyed. "Sherlock Holmes." As he listens, his expression grows more focused. "Of course. How could I refuse?" He hangs up without saying goodbye, and immediately heads for the door. "Lestrade. A case," he adds, looking at Lucy, who suddenly looks worried.

"Wait, you're taking a second case?" she asks.

"Considering your case is so connected to my mental state, this will give me a chance to observe you and your reactions when I am deducing," he says as though it were obvious. Though to him, things usually are.

He reaches the door, pulling on his jacket and scarf, and addresses me. "Coming?"

I glance at the girl. "If you want me to."

"Of course," Sherlock answers before Lucy can say a word. She only smirks, seemingly unbothered by his lack of social graces.

He swings open the door. "I'd be lost without my blogger." Lucy grins enthusiastically at that. I smile back. She must really be a fan of the blog.

Sherlock disappears down the stairs and the two of us are quick to follow. "The game is on," I hear Lucy mutter behind me, and I can't help but smirk at that.

Little did I know, a much greater Game was afoot.

•••

*theme song plays*

So what do you guys think? Shoot me reviews, I'd love to hear your reactions! :) — Lark


	5. Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR: IN WHICH MY BALD EAGLE ANCESTRY MAKES A BRIEF APPEARANCE

•••

The taxi ride mostly consists of staring out the window, trying to ignore the pairs of eyes on me and the busy whirl of Sherlock's thoughts. I attempt to make a little polite conversation at first, but I get weird looks from both Sherlock and John. I think the detective's was more a _why are you talking I'm trying to_ _think_ kind of look, but I don't quite understand John's.

Eventually we pull up in front of the Yard, and Sherlock leads us inside. We are met by Lestrade at the door.

"Hello, Sherlock, John," he greets, and looks curiously at me. "You got another fan?"

"I'm a client," I say, cutting off whatever snark Sherlock has brewing. "Lucy Daniels."

"Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. You're American?" he asks pleasantly, indirectly asking what I'm doing across the pond.

"I'm a student," I say. It's not a lie.

He starts to ask another question, but Sherlock sighs heavily. "You called me for a reason, I assume?"

Lestrade suppresses a roll of his eyes and leads us across the office, and it's so strange to be inside it, instead of just looking at it from the other side of a screen. It makes my stomach jump, in some strange mix of fear and excitement.

"You like the funny cases, don't you?" he says. "The surprising ones."

I feel John's gaze on my back as Sherlock responds, "Obviously." I wince, knowing I don't cut the most impressive figure as far as a case goes.

"You'll love this," Lestrade continues. "That explosion –"

"Gas leak, yes?" Sherlock says.

We pass by a desk, and behind it is none other than Sergeant Sally Donovan herself. She exchanges a glare with the detective, but he's too distracted by the case to pay her much attention.

"No," Lestrade answers, attempting to head off any comments she might make. She eyes me for a moment, but doesn't say anything.

"No?" Sherlock asks.

"No," the DI confirms. "Made to look like one."

"What?" John asked concernedly, and I can practically see the flashbacks behind his eyes. I've heard stories. Soldiers swerving at every plastic bag on the road, because in war, innocuous bags can hold bombs with enough power to tear you apart. I hadn't even thought about him being a touch gruffer than normal. But now I wonder how much of his worry for Sherlock was showing through. I know for sure the detective hasn't caught it.

Lestrade leads us into his office, which smells like he's eaten lunch in here not long ago. The words note his (apparently) seldom clear desk is clean of anything except a single white envelope, Sherlock's own name written in looping script. He deduces the basics _(female, fountain pen, doesn't use my legal name)_ quickly, even as the DI continues.

"Hardly anything left of the place except a strongbox." He sees Sherlock's question coming, and amends, "A very strong strongbox. And inside it was this." He points to the envelope, and the words flurry about excitedly, not only about the evidence in front of him, but about motives, and how he is addressed specifically, and how I'm really interested in what's going on in his head, and how I'm now blushing, and – yeah. At least he's beyond any sort of doubt with me.

He spares me a smirk before returning his attention to the silver-haired man in front of him. "You haven't opened it?"

"It's addressed to you, isn't it?" he responds, and the frustration in his posture tips Sherlock off to the fact that he's had to keep someone's (Anderson's, probably) prying hands off the letter.

As he reaches toward it, Lestrade adds, "We've x-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped."

John stiffens.

Sherlock hesitates. "How reassuring," he says dryly, before taking the envelope to another room to inspect it under the lamp, probably to double-check their work. "Nice stationary," he says in passing. "Bohemian."

"What?" Lestrade asks, confused about the odd word.

"From the Czech Republic," he defines impatiently.

I remember how I always thought of Boho fashion in this scene before I learned that A Scandal in Bohemia is the Doyle story the writers were referencing. Or, in Belgravia, as it would end up. Irene Adler and all that. Though, I don't remember if she ever was actually working for Moriarty, or if she was using him or something.

At the thought of Moriarty, a horrible thrill zaps through me, and I feel sick.

"No fingerprints?" Sherlock asks, all business, and not paying attention to me. I'm secretly relieved.

Lestrade responds, "No," watching the detective just as closely as the rest of us.

I watch the deductions sprout up as he observes aloud, and many more shoot by unsaid, deemed unimportant. "She used a fountain pen. Parker duofold – iridium nib."

"'She'?" John asks, surprised.

"Obviously," Sherlock replies absently.

 _Irene,_ I think, and I'm again glad the mind meld thing doesn't work two ways.

John presses his lips together, air hissing from his nose. "Obviously," he repeats.

I hesitate as Sherlock reaches for the letter opener, a bit of information ticking at my brain. "Isn't iridium really expensive?"

"Yes," he responds, cautiously slitting the envelope. "It's very common in older models, especially in the early nineteen-hundreds, collectibles and the like."

Lestrade gives me a curious glance, and I shrug. "I did a report in chemistry."

He nods, and returns his attention to Sherlock as his gloved hand draws something out. Something very familiar.

John gapes. "But that's - that's the phone, the pink phone!"

"What, from the Study in Pink?" Lestrade asks, and I belatedly remember I'm not supposed to recognize it.

The detective is too wrapped up in things to notice. "Well, obviously it's not the same phone, but it's made to look like..." He trails off as he realizes what the DI said.

"You read the blog, too?" I ask, not missing my opening this time. I might have spoken too quickly, because the detective's too-sharp gaze instantly snaps to me. But he only glances and goes back to his deductions, seemingly eager to ignore the questions he knew would follow.

"'Course I read the blog! We all do," Lestrade replies, a bit defensively. John looks slightly alarmed as he turns to Sherlock. "Do you really not know the earth goes around the sun?"

Donovan chooses that moment to wander in with a stack of files, snickering obnoxiously. I dig my teeth into my tongue to keep myself from making a scathing remark about the state of her knees.

Sherlock chooses to ignore them in favor of keeping his attention on the phone. "It isn't the same phone. It's brand new." Bits of information pop up almost too quickly to comprehend _(never charged, unblemished, small differences in the plastic, hardly handled, stolen?, wiped clean)_. "Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the phone. Which means your blog has a far wider readership." He glares at John, who only looks at me.

"I think we've already established that," he responds, allowing his irritation to surface.

Sherlock doesn't respond. Instead he switches on the phone. His mind palace is positively whirling with possibilities at this point.

"You have one new message," a voice says, and the phone issues a series of beeps.

"Is that it?" John says.

"No, that's _not_ it," Sherlock replies, annoyed, and continues poking around in the phone memory.

"What does it mean?" I question, and get three pairs of incredulous eyes on me for my trouble. "What?"

"You haven't heard the Greenwich pips?" Lestrade asks in surprise.

I shift uncomfortably. "If it's a British thing, it's likely a no. I've only been here for like a week."

Sherlock doesn't look convinced, but he returns his gaze to the phone. "They mark Greenwich Standard Time. Broadcast on the radio every hour, on the hour. Five short pips for the final five seconds of each hour, and a single longer pip for the turnover onto the new hour."

I frown. "But there were only four short pips, not five."

"Exactly." The detective has pulled up a picture on the phone, and we all lean in to take a look. It's an unfurnished, unkempt-looking room, with peeling paint and an ancient fireplace. Both are in a bland creamy yellow that looks dusty and faded.

The words coalesce into a single clump, slowing massively for a long moment. I look at his face, and for a fraction of a second I see shock.

"What the hell are we supposed to make of that?" Lestrade is saying, clearly frustrated that Sherlock isn't seeming to get anything useful out of the phone. "An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!"

Sherlock looks up, staring at one of his words with a distant expression. "It's a warning," he reads it aloud.

"A warning?" John asks.

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips." A set of circles appear before him, four little ones followed by a single large one, like Pacman or something. "They're warning us it's going to happen again."

John and Lestrade look on in a vague sense of disbelief and incomprehension. How he had made the leap between audible pips and actual pips was weird enough to me, who hadn't even known that a pip was another word for a seed until I had looked it up. But to those who couldn't see the words, he must seem absolutely nuts.

He points the phone at each of them. "And I've seen this place before." He strides out of the office, his long legs carrying him so fast he appears to be gliding on the billows of his coat.

I recover quickest, and hurry after him, flinching only a little as I pass through a cloud of words hovering like insects.

"Hang on," John says, trying to keep up both mentally and physically. "What's going to happen again?"

"Boom!" Sherlock turns, raising his hands in an exaggerated motion, before practically skipping out of the room. The three of us quickly follow, two of which are definitely shooting some mental curses his way.

I drop behind a moment to throw a smug grin Donovan's way, before ducking out behind them.

I know everything Sherlock knows about her, and even a bit more. She doesn't even have a clue how much potential blackmail I possess. The fact that I could drop the right fact to the right person and jeopardize her job, fills me with a sense of power. A perverse pleasure, probably, but anyone who calls my Sherlock a freak better not do it anywhere near my face.

Wait, did I really just call him 'my' Sherlock?

My face burns, and I'm really, really, really glad the detective is distracted. He's waving down another taxi and John is giving me a hard, calculating look, eerily similar to his flatmate's, but distinctly his.

I give him an unsure smile, and he looks away, but not without a frown appearing between his eyebrows. It doesn't go away.

•••

Ah, we Americans. So clueless.

This chapter's a bit filler-y, but necessary to start setting up for the good stuff. Lucy's gonna play a bigger role farther in, we've just got to get there. I'm sorry we haven't really gotten to the romance part of the story yet, but we're closer! Hope you're enjoying the story so far. Feel free to shoot me some feedback and let me know what else you'd like to see! Love you, readers! xxx — Lark


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